


Cold Snap

by Rhyana



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhyana/pseuds/Rhyana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something came back with the children when school broke for the summer, something evil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Snap

**Author's Note:**

> A great big thank you to Pip, who beta'd this for me. You are awesome. Moogle, this isn't quite what you asked for, but I hope you like it. This was my story for 2009 Apocalyptothon.

**August 1st,**

I'm running. I can hear the screams of the damned behind me, the dying sounds urging me further along the path. I feel the branches of trees cut into my flesh, grabbing to hold me still, grabbing so the damned can find me. I pay them no heed. I have to escape the screams.

I see the land rising to form a hill. I groan, the burning in my chest grows sharper, and my legs feel heavy. I keep running. A snap shocks me, as does the pain, as I fall to the ground. I feel arms surround me. The damned have caught me.

The wind changes, and I smell his cologne. Relieved, I sag into my husband's arms, groaning as the pain grows.

"Hermione, what's wrong?" Ron asks, his eyes seeking an injury he cannot see. Not in the darkness, where the trees block out the moon.

"Ankle's broken, I think," I gasp. The pain is rising up from my ankle, closer to my knee. He helps me sit and whispers "Lumos" to see what damage I have done to my leg. "The right one," I tell him as I sink into the grass, stones and twigs. I ignore the discomfort and instead focus on his fingers on my ankle, the soft hum of the nighttime birds. My thoughts turn to how we got out here.

A timed curse, one that was spreading throughout the English countryside like a plague. I don't recognize the spell, but I know the source. Voldemort, apparently realizing he was not immortal, had created something through the Dark Arts that was ripping the wizarding community apart.

It appeared first among the children who were returning from Hogwarts the previous summer. It seemed like a simple cold or allergy, but one that all the spells or potions in the known world could not cure. Aside from a few coughs and congestion, the children seemed fine. Everyone, including myself, who had any contact with an infected child demonstrated the same symptoms, only to see them disappear after a few months. By the time summer had ended and the children were on their way back to school, nearly the whole of the populace had been infected.

We just didn't know. The spell was ancient. The Dark Lord must have searched for years looking for some way to punish us if he was defeated. My thoughts are racing: how did he get the spell so perfectly timed? How did he get it activated? Where was it hiding? Who was the source?

I have to keep thinking. Writing this down may lead to some answers, but it may just be a way to keep the fear at bay.

**August 4th,**

Three days later, we're still on the move. The others can feel us close, so we've been chased a fair bit. We've found safety in a small cave. Our "scent" is masked by a much larger source. The cave is carved into the side of a fairy hill. At night, I can hear the merriment of the fey folk inside, calling me in. Ron and I have woken to find the other searching for the entrance, but neither has been successful. Thank what few merciful deities are left in the world for that small miracle.

Ron knows we can't stay here for long. Our supplies are low, and sooner or later we will have to face a foe. Whether the face will be familiar or fey will be decided.

**August 7th,**

Ron's fixed my ankle, but it still aches from time to time. Running isn't helping, but it's the best course. Today, we will venture out. If we see no one or nothing, we are breaking camp and heading for Wales, to the sea. We can only hope the plague hasn't made it that far.

I've been pushing Ron to his limits with my questions. He doesn't know anything. I keep asking, but after the second day, he hasn't said much. I can tell he's thinking of his family, of our children. He's wondering if Harry and Ginny made it out.

I'm wondering the same myself.

**August 14th,**

We were nearly caught, three days ago, in a clearing just before we entered Wales. A Muggle family was good enough to takes us close, but they dropped us off still too far from our destination. The others, whatever the curse has turned them into, were on us almost immediately. We ran, but we were not fast enough. One grabbed my sore ankle, knocked me to the ground, and began to drag me closer to the mob.

The sweetest sound in the world is that of a well-placed "Expecto Patronum!" and the sight of a stag rushing forth to scare away the creatures the infected wizards and witches have become. The sweetest sight is of Harry Potter standing beside my husband.

He set up a camp not far from where he found us. Of the Weasley family, there were only six standing in the clearing. Ginny ran up to us, crying and arms and kisses. If it had been any other moment in time, I would have been mortified. I counted the grim faces. Ginny's was the youngest.

What hope I had held until that moment was crushed. The children are gone.

**September 12th,**

Ron wants to go back. He swears he could hear Rose calling for him. I have to hold on to him. He can't leave me.

**September 25th,**

The others are gone. Whatever protective spell surrounds this place, it isn't enough. Ron is still here. I think he's afraid I'll go completely mental if he tries to leave. Harry... Harry's quiet. He awoke seven days ago and found that Ginny, Fleur, and Bill had left sometime in the evening. They haven't been seen since. Molly went looking for them, and then Arthur, and then George...

We're stuck here, in this bloody invisible circle, being picked off one by one. Ten Little Indians, and then there were three...

**October 4th,**

The circle is shrinking. So is my supply of paper. There's only room now for a single tent. Ron and I share a corner, squeezed into a single sleeping bag. Harry's in the other corner. We are just waiting for the end now.

**October 16th,**

Ron went for wood yesterday. The forest where we've set up camp is quiet and still. Voldemort's curse seems to have stopped even the wind. I had almost forgotten the curse. Three things reminded me.

Ron hasn't returned.

Harry hasn't said anything since daybreak.

The cold has started to seep into my bones.

**October 31st,**

It's appropriate that my journal ends today. My last bit of paper, the scant few inches. If anyone finds this, beware. The last act of Lord Voldemort is a terrible one.

Tomorrow will be the end, as I am the last to fade. Harry disappeared into the forest at daybreak. Despair is my only companion now.

Just as I closed the tent's flap, I saw Ron's face floating on the still air. Harry's visage followed and was so much clearer. I saw Rose and sweet, sweet Hugo. I saw the images of my family, friends, even my old enemies. They circle the tent, waiting.

I'll put down my pen now and go to sleep. I have waited too long to join them.


End file.
